A Girl Like You (34 page)

Chapter Forty Nine

‘I love the way you do thumbs up, like the Fonz,’ he says.

‘I love the way you take up every inch of space, wherever you are, like a big shaggy dog.’

‘I love the way you take everything and nothing seriously.’

‘I love the way you take me seriously.’

‘I love that your brain is always working on three things at once.’

‘I love the way you’re so serious on the outside and so silly underneath.’

‘I love that about you, too.’

‘I love the way you squeal like a girl.’

‘I love the way you arrange the cutlery in the dishwasher according to type.’

‘Well, forks and spoons always fight . . . I love your face.’

‘Ah, damn you, I was just getting to your face . . .’ he says, and leans forward and we start kissing again.

Not that we’ve really stopped kissing. At every full stop, sentence clause, and sometimes just between syllables, we’ve kissed. After Robert’s speech, and the seemingly never-ending main course (during which we found it nigh impossible to break eye contact), and Sophie and Luke’s first dance, Robert could legitimately stand up and ask me to dance.

Eleven songs later, we’re still dancing together, hardly moving, our arms slung around each other. I’m not sure who else is dancing. All I can see is Robert.

‘I’m so sorry that I left you in Hong Kong,’ I say, for the hundredth time.

‘That’s OK, darling. If I were you, I would probably have done the same,’ he says.

‘Sophie once described you as London’s premier playboy,’ I say. ‘Sure you’re ready to trade that title in?’

‘So utterly, utterly ready. You know, I think I’ve loved you since you told me the ending of that
Simpsons
episode.’

I laugh. ‘Why?’

‘It’s just not what I would have expected from a girl like you.’

‘I guess that’s what girls like me are good for. The unexpected.’

‘You are. You definitely are.’

We start kissing again.

‘My face hurts from smiling,’ I say. ‘I’ll kiss it better later.’

‘I love you.’

‘I love you.’

Yep, it’s pretty nauseating. I’ll excuse you from hearing any more of the love talk.

At some point over the next few hours – it’s all a bit hazy for me; I’m drunk on kisses – Sophie and Luke cut the cake, and the wedding band leaves, and the Pixies cover band arrives. This is quite a departure in musical tone, and after watching Vix, JimmyJames, Charlotte, Henry, Plum and Dan charging around playing air guitar and leg guitar, Robert and I decide to head outside to the garden bar.

‘Do you want a shot?’ says Robert. ‘Liquid confidence?’

‘Get thee away from me, Satan,’ I say.

‘Hi there,’ a voice interrupts us. It’s a very well-turned-out blonde woman in her mid-30s, wearing an expensive-looking long, mint dress and a slightly déclassé faux-mink stole. ‘Beautiful speech, Robert. Can I have a word? In private?’ She looks at me pointedly.

‘No,’ he says abruptly. ‘You can’t.’

He takes my hand and as we walk off, I finally twig.

‘That was Louisa!’ I exclaim.

‘Yes,’ he says, grinning. ‘The silly bitch. Constantly trying to get a piece of me.’

‘I want to meet her,’ I say petulantly.

‘No, darling, you really don’t,’ he says, kissing my hand.

I can’t help it. I turn around and meet Louisa’s heavily-kohled eyes. She’s staring at me furiously from the doorway. I give her the biggest smile I can muster, and then turn to Robert, grab him by the tie and pull him down for a huge kiss.

‘Lovely,’ he murmurs, 20 seconds later. ‘But don’t think I don’t know whose benefit that was for.’

‘Just marking my territory,’ I say amiably.

‘Robert, excellent speech,’ calls my mother, gesturing with a martini glass like she’s Dorothy Parker. She’s on the other side of the bar with all my aunts, who are gazing at Robert like he’s something to eat. Which he is. But only for me.

‘Let’s run away,’ I say to him.

‘Anything you want,’ he replies.

Then a bartender comes up and hands me a note.

I’m sorry. I can’t explain it or make up for it. But I am sorry. Bella.

I crumple it up and throw it in a nearby ashtray.

‘Bella or Dave?’ guesses Robert.

‘Bella,’ I say. I shrug. ‘It really doesn’t matter. I don’t care about them.’

‘Neither do I,’ he says, smiling into my eyes. He hasn’t let go of my hand since we started dancing. It feels very natural. In fact, it feels – what’s the word? Right. ‘I only care about you. And I care, a little bit, about getting us both another drink. One second . . .’

Robert turns to a nearby waiter, and I grin to myself and gaze around the outside area happily, and then catch my dad’s eye. He looks pointedly at Robert and then at me, and winks. I wink back. He was right, I think. He was right and Robert and I were completely and utterly wrong. When you find the right person you’ll just know.

‘We’ve broken every single one of your rules,’ I say to Robert, as we turn to face each other again and he hands me a glass of champagne.

‘Rules?’ he says, leaning over to give me a thoughtful little nibble-kiss.

‘The surviving singledom rules. Your entire speech was about how the only way to find love is to not be cool, or detached, or brutal, or bulletproof. How being in control and walking away is cowardly, how you must be brave and take a risk.’

‘As long as it’s the right person—’

‘But still, it’s the opposite of the rules,’ I insist.

‘They weren’t
rules
, darling,’ he says. ‘They were just . . . silly. I was trying to help you feel better about being single because the whole thing seemed to stress the hell out of you. In an absolutely adorable way, of course.’

‘It did,’ I admit. ‘Though as you’ll remember, I was brilliant at singledom for a while. Then I crashed and burned.’

‘Good thing you won’t be single again, then,’ he says, leaning forward to kiss me.

‘Darn,’ I say. ‘I really think I would have nailed it this time.’

The Rules of Surviving Singledom

Be cool
Be silly

Be detached
Be direct

Act brutal
Be kind

Stay in control
Let yourself do whatever you want

Bulletproof
Have an open heart

Always leave them before they leave you
Be true to yourself and everything will work out.

Acknowledgement

I’d like to think that I’m adorable when I’m writing. That I sit here, chewing my lip endearingly, as I search for the perfect phrase or word. In reality I’m a panda-eyed harridan, sighing and swearing and bashing the keyboard furiously, with the occasional joyous laughing fit at my own hilarity, and far more frequent hair-pulling tantrums when I decide the whole thing is awful and I suck. So the biggest thanks has to go to Paul, for putting up with me during the writing of
A Girl Like You
, and even marrying me just after I finished it. I love you. You are the best. I am sorry about the sex bits. I promise I was thinking about you the whole time.

Thanks to my agent, Laura Longrigg, for being so perceptive, encouraging and brilliant about writing and reading and oh, everything. Thanks to my delightful editor Sammia Rafique, for falling in love with
A Girl Like You
straightaway and for her endless positivity. Thanks to Jill Grinberg for her encouragement, support and our long, lovely conversations. Thanks to everyone who read
The Dating Detox
and emailed me to say hi. Thanks to the people who emailed a Bastard name suggestion and story to Name That Bastard (not to mention thanks for going through all those dreadful breakups just to help me name the dude). Thanks to all my friends called Dave for not minding that their name is, apparently, the biggest bastard name of all. (Hey, internet polls don’t lie.) Thanks to my non-Dave friends and family for being encouraging and cool and funny.

Since we’re here, thanks also to Nora Ephron, Helen Fielding, Elizabeth Gilbert and Jilly Cooper, for being deliciously smart, funny, insightful and more-ish writers who inspire me to try to be as deliciously smart, funny, insightful and more-ish as them. And thanks to you, for reading this far. You must be bored by now, surely. In fact, to paraphrase Ferris Bueller: you’re still here? It’s over! Go home . . . Or, go to the next page and read a bit from my first novel,
The Dating Detox.

Part One: Changing How You Think

The Dating Detox: A Sneak Peek.

At 5.30 pm exactly, I leave work as quickly and quietly as I can to head down to meet Bloomie in a bar about ten minutes’ walk from South Kensington tube station. I’d like to get a black cab, but can’t quite justify it. (I spend an inordinate amount of time justifying the expense of black cabs to myself. My two go-to excuses are that it’s late so the tube could be dangerous. Or that I’m wearing very high heels.)

On the number 14 bus on the way down the Fulham Road, I try to talk myself into being in a good mood. Despite the universe throwing every happy loved-up person in London in my path tonight (how can they all find love and not me? How can the drab little beige thing in front of me be calling her boyfriend to say she’ll put dinner on for when he gets home? Why, damn it, why am I unable to achieve that?), it’s not actually that hard. I’m cheery by nature, I love after-work drinks, I love Bloomie and I love the place where we’re meeting. It’s a restaurant called Sophie’s Steakhouse, but we only ever go to the bar part. It’s not quite a pick-up joint, but not all couples; not too rowdy, but not too quite; not too cool and not too boring. In short, it’s the perfect place for the freshly single.

I push past the heavy curtain inside the front door, and see the usual young, rather good-looking West London crowd. There are some gorgeous men in here, as ever, though I know they’re probably a bit rah-and-Rugger-Robbie for me. A few floppy-haired Chelsea types in red corduroy trousers (where do they sell those things and how can we make them stop?), a couple of older business-type guys waiting alone in suits for wives or girlfriends, and I can sense, but not see, a group of five guys having an early dinner in the restaurant part, as they turn around to look at me as I come in. I know it’s only because, well, I’m female, but still. It’s gratifying. Especially today.

Bloomie is, as usual, about half an hour late, so I kill time reading the fun bits of the paper someone else has left behind (you know, the celebrity bits, and the movie and book reviews). As soon as she arrives we start as we always do: with a double cheek kiss and a double vodka.

Things move swiftly from there. I don’t want to get hammered tonight as it’s only Wednesday and payday isn’t for another ten days, but quite soon we start going outside for cigarettes (neither of us smoke, except in situations of extreme stress, like last night, or drinking, or, um, gossiping on a Saturday, or sometimes on the phone), which is a sure-fire sign we’re here for the long haul.

Before I know it, I’m slapping the table with one hand to emphasise my point (which point? Who can say? Any point! Pick a point, please), and making dramatic absolute statements that start with ‘I will NEVER’ and ‘There is no WAY’.

From drink one to two we talk about Posh Mark, from drink two to three we talk about Eugene (the extremely lovely guy she’s been dating for a few months. She calls him The Dork because who the sweet hell is called Eugene?), with a quick side-wind into talking about Bloomie’s recently-redundant-and-leaving-soon-to-travel-the-world flatmate Sara, from three to four we talk about the state of the economy. (Just kidding! We talk about Posh Mark and Eugene again. Obviouslah.) Then drink five hits. And the thoughts that have been percolating in my brain all day tumble out.

‘Bloomie. Bloomster. Listen to me. I can’t do it again. I can’t do it again.’

‘What? Drink?’ Bloomie is writing The Dork a text, with one eye closed to help her focus.

‘No – I mean, yes, I’ll have another drink . . . um, yes, a double, please. I can’t . . . I can’t date anymore, I can’t do it, I’m useless at it and I can’t do it.’ I’m hitting the table so hard to emphasise every point that my hand starts tingling.

‘Get a grip, princess.’

‘Seven years of this shit, Blooms. Six failed relationships. I don’t want to do it anymore. I just want it all to go away.’

‘It’s seven years of bad luck, that’s all. Wait!’ Bloomie throws up her hands melodramatically. ‘Did you break a mirror when you were 21?’

‘I mean it . . . I can’t do it again. The whole dating thing is fucked. You see someone for ten minutes in a bar and they chat you up and ask you out, and boom! You’re dating, but how can you possibly know if they’re really right for you?’

‘Well, you hope for the best,’ shrugs Bloomie, with all the confidence of someone in a happy relationship.

‘No. I can’t bear it . . . The nausea, the hope, the waiting for him to call, the nausea, and on the rare occasions that everything is really good and he likes me and I like him, the nausea of waiting for him to dump me. As he will, because he always does, no matter who the fuck he is. I’ve done it too many times, and I look back on them all and feel so angry at myself for dating them in the first place . . . And have I mentioned the nausea?’

Bloomie looks at me and frowns.

‘Is this really about Rick? Because I swear to God, that guy was . . .’

‘No,’ I interrupt quickly. ‘Of course it is not. I am over him. I really think, I mean I know, I know I am over him.’

‘OK . . .’ she says doubtfully. ‘Why don’t you just concentrate on work for a few months and not worry about it? That’s what I did after Facebook guy and it was the best thing I could have done. And after Bumface. And The Hairy Back.’ These are her ex-boyfriends. She pauses. ‘I always concentrate on work, actually.’ She starts to laugh. ‘Imagine if I hadn’t had such a shit lovelife! I’d never have had any promotions.’

I look at her and sigh. I’ve never had a promotion.

‘I am a failure at my job, Bloomie. Today was . . .’ I close my eyes. I can’t bear to think about work. I’ve told Bloomie about my inability to deal with Andy before, and she suggested ways to handle it, but I’m just not able to tackle things like she does. (I believe the technical term is ‘head on’.) ‘It’s nothing, it’s not worth even discussing. I should just quit my job. I’m so bad at it. I’m a failure! At everything!’ Oh, there goes the drama queen again. Sashaying away.

‘Hey. Come on. You’re great at your job,’ she says loyally, reaching a tipsy hand out for my shoulder. ‘Though I wish you’d be as ballsy with them as you are with us.’

I raise a doubtful eyebrow at her. ‘Being ballsy with my best friends isn’t exactly hard. It’s the rest of the world that’s difficult.’

‘I had a bad day too,’ says Bloomie supportively. ‘You know, this is the first time I’ve left work before 8 pm in a month. I hate it.’

She so doesn’t hate working late, but I’ll leave that. ‘Really? Are you OK? What’s happening?’ I take a sip of my drink. I’m hungry, but the drinks here are expensive, and dinner will have to wait till I get home.

‘Don’t you read the papers, darling?’ she says, laughing. I notice, for the first time, the bags beneath her eyes, and that her nails are uncharacteristically bitten. ‘It’s more that nothing good is happening . . . I just need to keep my head down and not lose my job.’

‘Oh, um . . . yes,’ I say, stirring my drink. When it comes to the world of finance, I’m clueless. Have the banks started collapsing again? I always picture them tumbling down piece by piece. ‘I’m sure you won’t lose your job, Blooms.’

‘Yeah, yeah, it’ll be fine,’ Bloomie says, making a batting-away motion with her hand. ‘And The Dork is an excellent distraction. That’s what you need. You need a Dork to distract you.’

‘No,’ I say, and sigh deeply. ‘I can’t make the right choices no matter what I do . . . It will never work out for me. Never. And I don’t want to try anymore.’

‘I know you,’ says Bloomie, laughing. ‘You say that now, but tomorrow you’ll see some hot dude in a bar and think, yes, please.’

‘Exactly! I even walked in here tonight checking the guys out and wondering which of them might ask me out. I really do think like that, and I’ve been single for less than 24 hours. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m in a vicious circle where my life revolves around dating, but dating is bad for my life. It’s called an addiction!’

‘No, it’s not. It’s called being a single in your twenties.’

‘Well, I’m over it,’ I say. ‘I’m sick and tired and fed up with the whole fucking thing. As God is my witness, I am not dating anymore.’

‘You’re not religious, Scarlett O’Hara,’ says Bloomie, poking her ice with her straw. ‘You’re not even christened.’

‘OK then, as Bloomie is my witness . . .’ I pause for a second, and slam both my hands down on the table so hard that the bartenders look over in alarm. ‘Yes! Yes! I will officially cease and desist from dating and everything to do with it from this moment forth. No more dating, no more dumpings. Officially. For real.’

‘No men?’

‘No men.’

‘No sex?’

‘No sex.’

‘No flirting?’

I pause for a second. ‘No obvious flirting. But I can still talk to guys . . .’

‘You need to draw up a no-dating contract, then.’

‘Do it,’ I say, taking out a cigarette and perching it in my mouth expectantly.

‘We’ll call it the Love Holiday!’ says Bloomie happily, looking through her bag for a pen.

‘Love Holiday? That sounds like a Cliff Richard movie. No, it’s a . . . it’s a Sabbatical. A Dating Sabbatical.’

‘What if you meet the man o’ your dreams?’

I roll my eyes. ‘Come on. What are the odds of that?’

Bloomie cackles with laughter. ‘When will you know it’s over?’

‘Six months. That’s the average Sabbatical, right?’

‘Dude, seriously. That’s a long time to ignore real life, even for you.’

‘That’s the point . . . OK, three months.’

‘Right, I need some paper. I’ll ask the bartender. And shall we have another drink?’

As Bloomie heads towards the bar, I gaze in delight at all the men I won’t be dating. I feel deeply relieved to have the whole issue taken away. I can’t believe I never thought of this before! I am brilliant! High-fives to me!

The next morning I wake up with a predictably dry and foul-tasting mouth.

I open one eye, noting thoughtfully the crusty-eyelash sen sation that means I demaquillaged imperfectly, and discover a piece of paper on my right breast. Naturally, dear reader, you’re one step ahead of me – I’d expect nothing less – and you know already that this piece of paper will be the list that I remember reading (with one eye shut, due to mild vodka-induced double-vision) as I went to sleep last night.

I signed it and Bloomie signed it. Our signatures have, unsurprisingly, slightly more flair than usual. In fact, I’ve added an ‘Esq’ to mine. Hmm.

What the hell is a ladygarden?